


Conversational Russian

by JantoJones



Series: Further Brief Briefings [14]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya comes to realisation about his mother tongue.





	Conversational Russian

Illya was in a deep dream sleep when his alarm rang out to herald the start of the day. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he sat up and rubbed his face in a vain attempt relieve his tiredness. He and Napoleon had return from a four week assignment the previous day and, although they would usually be given downtime, this time they would have to wait another day. Influenza had brought several other agents down, meaning the Command had been under-staffed. They were expecting some of them back the next day.

Pulling himself to his feet, Illya sighed again and set about his morning routine. His tiredness was such that, during his shower, he dropped the soap twice. Then, as he dressed, he painfully stubbed his toe against the wardrobe. Things reached a head while he prepared his coffee. He somehow managed to spill the whole can, and as he tried to grab it, he knocked his mug from the counter.

“It is going to be one of those days,” he said out loud to himself.

Then he froze, realising what he had just said. It wasn’t the words themselves which were the problem, but the language. Illya was hit by the sudden awareness that he had stopped using his mother tongue. He couldn’t even remember the last time his thoughts had been in Russian, and not English.

________________________________________________________

Napoleon was one of the few people who could read Illya’s moods despite there being no obvious outward signs. However, he didn’t get a chance to ask him the problem until they met up for lunch.

“What’s up, Tovarisch?” he asked, as they both sat down. “Something seems to be eating you up.”

Illya hesitated before finally answering. He explained about his morning and his realisation.

“I seem to only speak my own language in an official capacity,” he told his partner.

“Is it making you homesick?”

“I shall always miss homeland, but it is no longer my home,” Illya replied. “I just miss speaking my own language to. . . What is that term you American’s use? I miss. . .shooting the wind.”

“Shooting the breeze,” Napoleon corrected. “I wish I could help you. I have a basic understanding of Russian, but I couldn’t have an informal conversation. What about Mike, or Jennifer, in translation. Don’t they speak Russian?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be what I desire.”

Napoleon understood what Illya meant. He got on very well with most people in HQ, but he needed someone with whom he was close. 

“What are you doing with your week off,” Solo asked, changing the subject.

“Sleeping,” Illya replied without a beat. “I am bone tired. What about you?”

“Tomorrow, I’m resting,” Napoleon told him. “Then on Monday I’m taking Phillipa to dinner, Tuesday Meghan and I are going to the zoo, on Wednesday. . .”

“Stop, Napoleon,” Illya said as he held a hand up, a wry smile appearing on his face. “I am far too tired to listen to your future exploits.”

__________________________________________________________

When Illya returned to headquarters, following a restful and refreshing week off, he found Napoleon had arrived before him. Entering the office, he was greeted by the sight of his partner guiltily slamming is desk drawer closed.

“What are you hiding?” he asked.

“Hello to you too, Illya. Did you enjoy your leave?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kuryakin replied. “I trust you did also. What are you hiding?”

Napoleon jutted out his chin in defiance. He’d faced Thrush torturers, so Illya Kuryakin didn’t frighten him; much. For a full three minutes the two men stared at each other. Finally, despite him being his closest friend, Illya’s icy glare got the better of him.

“Fine,” Napoleon conceded.

He opened the drawer and pulled out the book he had been studying before Illya had entered. The Russian suddenly found himself sporting a broad grin upon reading the title, ‘Conversational Russian for Beginners’.

“Spasiba, moy droog _(thank you, my friend)_ ,” he said, with affection.


End file.
